


he dies in the end

by ProwlingThunder



Series: The Everlasting List of Shenanigans [226]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anything For Noctis, Bastard Sons, Brothers, Chapter 9 Spoilers, Gen, Half-Brothers, Secret Sons, Sickness, Spoilers, Starscourge (Final Fantasy XV), The Line Of Lucis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: Instead of his Sight, the Ring of Kings takes something much more important from Ignis.





	he dies in the end

“It doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down. All that matters is you get up one more time than you were knocked down.”

― Roy T. Bennett

_ “There is a price.” _

There always was.

But what he swore as a boy he didn’t mean less as an adult, and whatever the price, he would pay it. He would always pay it.

_ Please. _

It was fire in his veins, the vaults of Ravatogh opened through him, reaper-venom crawling down his throat, past the screaming--

He screams. Nothing in life could have prepared him for this-- was this what Regis had carried, all the years he’d known him, Ifrit clawing at his bones? Was this what Noctis was to carry? His duty, his destiny? How could anyone be prepared for _ this? _

Of course he screams.

His lungs shutter for oxygen and he feels burnt out and shakingly, dangerously full, filled to the brim, and the world _ shatters _ around him, disorientingly so, when he lifts his head Ardyn’s way.

Everything is burning.

They’re too close to Noctis, so he moves-- he moves and he knows the Chancellor will follow, knows it in his whole being, knows it in the whisper in his ear, and when he settles there is only a moment before Ardyn is there, too, crimson blade coming down--

The whole fight blurs together and sticks as a memory of panic and desperation only, even when he collapses next to Noct. Ardyn is dead, he _ thinks-hopes-prays, _ despite knowing in his heart that’s not possible, that something so good couldn’t happen to them, it’s too convenient. 

Ardyn is dead and Noctis--

Ravus swears he lives. After all the bullshit in this city they’ve been through, Ignis has no reason to believe he lies. Noctis lives because he put on the ring, because of the sulfur churning in his gut, because everything that was has been drained and he is so, so tired.

He’s tired.

He closes his eyes and rests to the sound of footsteps and rain.

Light illuminates the darkness, lantern copper and brass and warm light, rays of electric purple splashing the world. The source changes with every step, swinging slow like a pendulum. 

There’s true light in the distance. A familiar fire, wreathed in reassuring blue; a four-man tent and his camp stove and all their chairs--

It never seems to get any closer.

The ring was never meant to be his fate, Ignis knows. Had always known. Ever since his birth, the throne and all its trappings had belonged to Noctis, and Ignis had never begrudged him that.

Why would he? Ignis had ever been happiest with his books and ivory keys, and he had enough work to do for the throne without ever sitting on it. While things that would have shaken the Crown Prince were often kept from him, there were few secrets that were kept from his advisor, and Ignis was often happier when he could shepard and safeguard Noctis’ happiness, keeping away the gloom.

But sometimes throughout the years, Ignis has been _ jealous _ of Noctis, to be sure. It was often hard not to be. While Noctis had been released to go to a public school, Ignis had been trapped with tutors; while Noctis could shuck off engagements he did not feel like attending, Ignis had no excuses.

When Noctis ignored his duties, piling up in the gulf without an attending prince, they fell onto Ignis’ shoulders to complete.

Little jealousies.

Ignis doesn’t wake long, at first. But every time is a little longer, sometimes Gladiolus and sometimes Prompto, never Noctis. They don’t talk about Noctis, though he asks. _ “He’s alive,” _ is all Gladiolus will say, trapped in his duty, as well. _ “You have to get better, first.” _

The noose of duty has never kept him so uninformed of his charge, yet Ignis learns a wealth of useless information; how the city is recovering, what the president is doing, how Prompto found a dog still alive in a collapsed building, the smell of rotten fish. Maagho is apparently _ actually missing, _ swept away in the tides, perhaps.

Gladiolus says very little, in the end, but his presence is a comfort none the less.

Eventually he stays awake for a whole boring day. The doctors make him repeat it several times before they let him go to Noctis, but on the third he did convince Gladiolus to finally hand him his damned chart, thank you.

Looking at it, he doesn’t know how he’s still alive.

They remove the IV after another week, and give him a cane to lean on, while his muscles still need the extra support. The visible weakness makes him balk. He would much rather use the walls to support himself until he is fully capable of moving on his own. But there is no help for it; people have seen his Shield about, and his best friend, and Ignis knows there is talk on the streets of Altissia, for all no one tells him of it.

He must be seen. And if it is with a show of weakness, then Ignis will show that weakness. People need to see them.

It wasn’t as though he had much choice, at any rate. It’s the cane or a wheelchair, and he fatigues quickly under exertion.

When he’s still, his fingers shake. Better people think it’s the wobbliness of a cane instead of his nerves; the common people wont notice, but Gladiolus and Prompto certainly will.

Ignis still has the cane weeks later, when their train to Tenebrae stops at Cartanica. Gladiolus has been hovering, on edge and worried, almost snaps at Noctis once or twice on the way, from the funk he’s fallen into. The death of Lady Lunafreya had hit him hard, and none of them are sure how to draw him out of it, get him back on course. He is allowed to mourn, of course, certainly, but they _ need _ him to be a king now, and Ignis…

Ignis doesn’t know how to help. The last time something like this had happened, it had been Gladiolus who had shaken him out of it; he was _ good _ at it. But now Gladio is distracted; Ignis understands. Not so long ago all four of them had lost their whole worlds, with very little to keep them going. They had relied on Noctis’ strength to see themselves through. And when Noctis’ strength had failed them, it had been to Ignis they had looked to for direction. And now…

Ignis still has the cane. He still uses it, occasionally, even though his muscles are sure again of how to carry weight. He’s healthy, despite all the fats and carbs and proteins the doctors had shoved in him during their remaining stay in Altissia, or perhaps because of them. _ “Whatever you did ate everything you had to give,” _ Gladio had told him, eventually. _ “They weren’t sure you weren’t gonna kick it before you woke up.” _

He cannot imagine the worry their two friends had been in, with both him and Noctis comatose for so many days. Likely that is the reason Prompto is now still quiet and Gladiolus still drawn tight, like a bow set to break.

He wards off another argument and falls into the back of the group with Prompto, feeling useless regardless of his knowledge otherwise as they descend into Fodina Caestino, into tepid waters and crocodilian teeth, even as the sun dips lower. They find a haven just before sunset and go about setting up camp for the first time in months, the routine a little out of practice, off balanced as Gladio goes instead to aid Prompto with the tent and Noctis aids him in setting up the camp kitchen, unfolding the tables and camp stove, head bowed next to him.

It breaks his heart to see his prince this way, sorrowful and _ guilty _ for it, as if none of them know he hasn’t had time to properly grieve. What Ignis wouldn’t give to give him that time…

“Ignis?”

“Hmm?” If he says actual _ words, _ it might spook Noctis from whatever he intends to say. Can’t have that. Not when Noctis has said so little since he woke up, as if Lady Lunafreya had taken his voice with her.

“Gladio said… you got hurt?”

Ah.

He does dearly love Gladiolus, but sometimes it can be infuriating, his way with words and righteous indignation. They hadn’t told Noctis what had happened to him in Altissia, on Ignis’ request. _ He _ hadn’t told anyone what had happened to him, but he suspects they guessed, at any rate; although they’re not talking about the garula in the room, it must have been some picture he made when they found him.

Sometimes he wished he had woken up with Ravus nearby, although Ravus joining the party would have certainly caused a lot more tension and ruckus. What had begun as an uneasy truce had turned into welcome comradery, and Ravus had been there, knew. Ignis would have had to explain nothing.

He considers his response carefully. Noctis is… delicate, at the moment, and Ignis would like to not upset him further. “I did something very risky, and it cost me a great deal. But it was a price I was willing to pay, Noct.” 

“Are you okay now?”

Well, honesty was the best policy. “Altissia’s best declared me perfectly healthy before we left, and what little else is left is on the mend.”

“So you’re gonna be fine.”

He drummed up a gentle smile for him. His worry was touching. “Yes, Noct. I am going to be just fine.”

He waits until all three of the others have had their turn in the shower and are well occupied in the sleeper car before locking himself in. He neither wants nor needs intrusion or aid, no matter how kindly offered, not after that heart-shaking climb into rancid water and Malboro mucilage.

Their clothes were a lost cause; the scent would never come out. The mucilage… well. Honestly Gladiolus was the only one who had managed to get it in his hair, but preliminary examination prior to the other man’s shower suggested they wouldn’t have to cut it, for which Ignis was honestly, truly grateful. The Amicitia were _excellent _Shields. However, _this_ _one_ spent a rather significant amount of time on personal grooming, and Ignis would not be indignant of it except he really, _really_ needed a shower.

He checked the locks thrice in paranoia before he went to work, deft fingers making short work of buttons before his favorite shirt found its way into the growing pile of unfortunate garbage that contained his uniform jacket. His boots went next; he had exactly one spare pair of footwear, and they were his dress shoes, but they have to do. Working himself out of his pants, however, wasn’t as easy as simply trying to _ shimmy. _ He peeled off his gloves and threw them aside for better dexterity, carefully peeling away black denim.

He had done well, the trip down Fodina Caestino. He had lingered in the back, interjecting only when he was certain he would be covered appropriately by one of the others. And yet, after the successful conclusion of their hunt, he had run afoul of the local flavor of sahagin which had decided to bask in an otherwise perfectly acceptable path back to the train station.

He was lucky. The water had already been ruddy and he had remembered not to scream when he had been bitten, the others caught up in battles all their own.

He barely remembers to throw a mess of towels beneath his leg when the ichor begins to flow, tentative scabbing disturbed by his determination. Inky burgundy gives way to oxygenated red sometime after he works the last of the teeth free from his calf, washed out under his menstrations, though the pain doesn’t abate, even when he reaches half-blind for a potion to regenerate his rapidly dwindling blood supply.

It tastes like fire going down. Ignis swallows it anyway, determinedly setting about stemming the blood flow and then cleaning and tending to the wounds properly. He downs a handful of the pills he acquired back in Altissia when he’s done, for pain, for fever and infection. Sahagin can cause sepsis with a single bite. It’s a miracle he has survived this long; there is no telling what sort of disease lingered in their mouths.

In the dimmed light of the shower car, he sits on the wooden floor and aches, eyes fixed on the wine-stain that lightnings across his left hand. A coil of sickly poison from digitus annula’ris, curled full circle around proximal phalanx; a brand from the kings as a reminder the ring had not belonged on his finger.

_ There is a price, _ the Kings had said, and Ignis had paid it without question, but now he wonders what that price was.

**Author's Note:**

> We know the Lucii takes hold of the Kings when they die, to use their Light to purify the Star of the Scourge. It’s VERY convenient that there’s a giant crystal you can use a sliver from to make a powerful ring, isn’t it?  
All Kings except one, at any rate.


End file.
